


The Heat

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [64]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Babies, Birthday, Birthday Party, F/M, Hisana Lives!, Implied Sexual Content, Married Couple, Scheming, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26194006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: Byakuya and Hisana discuss a potential new adversary.  Renji learns that thwarted romantic attempts don't result in death by embarrassment.  Byakuya survives his sons' birthday party.
Relationships: Abarai Renji/Kuchiki Rukia, Kuchiki Byakuya/Kuchiki Hisana
Series: A Thin Red Line [64]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/93946
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	The Heat

Hisana's hair splays across the white linen, like an ink blot. Sweat slickens her skin, beading at her hairline and pooling in the dip of her neck between the sharp edges of her collarbones. Her pulse pounding in her neck keeps pace with the breaths that come fast and ragged.

The summer’s heat blankets the room, but its burn doesn’t reach her through the spasms of pleasure that continue to break, the intensity of which lessens with each heartbeat.

Opening her eyes, the ceiling comes into view. Dusty morning light slants through the slats of the partially closed blinds. Every spot where the light touches the walls glows golden.

Hadn’t they been fighting over something trifling before _this_? The decorations for the boys’ birthday, maybe? Hisana isn’t sure. It wasn’t much of a fight. Seemed more like a pretext for sex.

Although, Byakuya has been in a _mood_ for the last few days.

At first, she blamed the heat. Now? It appears that a _very big_ _something_ is occupying an ever-increasing amount of real estate in her husband’s headspace.

And, this _very big something_ is putting distance between them.So much so that it’s beginning to feel like a dance without touching. The closer she comes to the source of Byakuya’s agitation, the more he maneuvers to keep it firmly out of her reach. 

It’s immensely frustrating. 

Hisana tips her head back, eyes tracing the ridges of carved wood in the headboard. Her thoughts drift to the strange furniture that now occupies the captain’s quarters: a raised bed, head- and foot-boards, tables and chairs with clawed feet that stand tall and ornate. 

The differences between Squad Six and the estate are almost jarring now.

She isn’t sure which she prefers, a thought that occurs to her as she runs a finger along the relief—a lotus flower—carved into the headboard. Probably took hours of working a knife to create. 

“You prefer the modern bed?” asks Byakuya. The soft rustle of sheets tells her that he’s ready to piece himself back together. He sits up, chest bare, the ends of his hair stick to his neck and shoulders. 

Hisana doesn’t have to look to know that he has kicked his legs over the edge of the mattress and is fumbling for his silks, his back to her.

“No." Her head rolls to the side, to the sound of his voice.

A pang of admiration hits as the lean muscles of his back move and flex, his hands shaking the wrinkles from his shitagi. His raw strength has always inspired a sense of security in her. This strength, however, comes at a cost. 

That cost, more often than not, is blood and damage, the remnants of which span his back. Thin silvery threads of scar tissue make a map of his flesh, marking the boundary lines where victory, defeat, and reckless ideas abut.

A new scar, fresh and raised, runs at a diagonal from his right shoulder to his left hip. 

Hisana’s fingertips brush over this cord of tissue. The touch is featherlight, but it stops Byakuya dead.

Where did it come from? How did it happen? Why hadn’t he said anything? 

She presses her tongue o the roof of her mouth to prevent the words from slipping out.

Thinking better of it, another question emerges: “Is everything alright?”

Byakuya sits stock-still. The fabric gripped between his hands drape to the floor in a cascade of shimmering white. His head lowers. 

Maybe this is her chance? He already looks to be mid-surrender.

Hisana pulls herself up on her knees behind him. With a barely-there stroke, she rakes the fall of his hair back with one hand; his silken tresses still damp from their lovemaking. Her other hand grips his shoulder, and she sets her chin in the curve of his neck. 

“What’s going on?” she whispers. “You seem preoccupied.”

After a long moment, he gives in to her, the tension in his shoulders easing. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t know or don’t want to say?” 

“I know about your meeting today.”

Ah, she was wondering when he was going to bring up the Social Work Standing Committee meeting. It has been on her schedule for a few weeks now. The meeting is to discuss the formation of an agency that will be in charge of providing social services to the souls in the deep Rukon districts. Hisana had wrangled this concession when agreeing to finance the Gotei 13 before the conflict with Aizen.

But why does this meeting pluck at him? The commission shouldn’t step on any noble toes. At worst, the gentry considers it little more than vanity project, which is fine by her.

Vanity projects rarely end in death.

“It wasn’t a secret,” she says, her fingers teasing loose a knotted muscle as she strokes him. “It’s at the manor. If you’d like—”

He shakes his head before she can finish. He’s not upset about the meeting. It’s something else. 

“Did I—” she begins, voice even and smooth. 

He gives another shake of his head and loosens a sigh. “Two of the Onmitsukidō’s clandestine cell systems were recently dismantled by hostile forces in the outer Rukon districts.”

Hisana starts at this, eyes wide, breath hitching in her throat. What? 

Placing a comforting hand atop of hers, he continues, voice quiet, eyes searching the pine floorboards, “The undercover and bridge agents were murdered. Even the couriers were ferreted out and slain. All the intelligence we gathered is now in the wind.”

“What was the intel related to?”

“Rumors of an old adversary resurfacing.”

“Which adversary?”

Byakuya pauses, as if he doesn’t like the taste of the word in his mouth. “Quincies.”

“How?” She doesn’t understand. “They were decimated eons ago.”

“Not all of them,” he murmurs, and she knows his thoughts snap to the Quincy boy they hosted shortly after Aizen’s betrayal because that’s exactly where her mind goes.

“And, the monitoring systems?” she digresses.

“Jammed in twenty-one districts. The Twelfth has sent several crews to get them back online. None of the men have returned.”

She stares at him, uncomprehendingly. “What?”

“Every sortie thus far has failed.”

“Do you think it’s really the Quincies?”

Byakuya leans into her and closes his eyes. “I don’t think so.” 

But, he’s uncertain, torn.

Hisana rests her cheek against his shoulder, finding comfort in the burn of his bare skin. “You don’t want me traveling to Rukongai for the committee work." 

It’s the only reason that she can think of to explain why he would confide this news in such graphic detail. He’s painting her a picture, one so dire so as to justify a request for her to stay put. 

A sidelong glance from Byakuya tells her everything she needs to know. “I don’t want you near the _city_ _wall_ right now; Rukongai is off-limits.” There is an edge to his voice, one that wavers. 

For all her headstrong tromping through Rukongai to find her sister, even in ill health, he held his tongue. He still holds his tongue when she seems keen on a bad idea. But, this. The circumstances must be grave for him to forbid her from venturing too far into _Seireitei_. 

“Understood.” Her arms snake around him in a loose embrace. “Be careful, milord.” She squeezes him tightly. “Your family needs and loves you.”

“I know,” he says and takes her hand and kisses it. Rough and sweet. Just as she likes it.

* * *

Renji sits with his back pushed up against the wall. The wooden lattice of the shoji panel sticks between the dips in his spine. It’s super uncomfortable, but here he is in Kuchiki manor. Not a damned raised chair to be found, and he’s stuck in the corridor, ass on hard pine floorboards, waiting for Captain Ukitake’s meeting to break.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” he asks, elbows hanging off his knees crossed in front of him.

Seated in perfect seiza on a pillow is Nanao Ise, reading from a tome. Isane Kotetsu stands at the window across from him, peering into the garden. Neither appears to hear his question, and, briefly, Renji wonders if he merely thought the words instead of speaking them.

“Your Captain didn’t make you brief him on the recent legislation?” asks Nanao, eyes flitting from the page of her book to him.

“No.” 

While Renji does _a lot_ for Squad Thirteen—all the drill training, protocol modifications, staffing and coordination of assignments, and _paperwork_ —there are a few things that Captain Ukitake insists on handling personally. Among those include high-priority or confidential correspondence from senior captains, the Chambers, and the important noble families. 

“The re-constituted Central 46 has formed a new committee at Lady Kuchiki’s behest,” Isane chimes in, glancing askance at Renji. 

Renji’s back straightens at this. “Oh?”

“It’s a collaboration between the nobility, the Gotei 13, and the Chambers for the betterment of the poorest Rukon districts,” adds Nanao.

Renji tilts his head at this. “That sounds—” 

_Unlike them,_ he wants to say, but he chews on the words, instead. 

Neither Nanao nor Isane hail from deep Rukongai. Likely, neither understands just how bad bad can _get_ there. And, right then, Renji doesn’t want to become the case study for them to pick apart. He’s never wanted that. He’s spent his entire career, starting with the Academy, actively avoiding any _mention_ of his impoverished upbringing. 

Learning to camouflage is a hard lesson, but one that kids from the outer-most districts learn fast. Anyone who embraced their heritage at the Academy either was swiftly punished for it via bullying, mocking, and ostracism or they became some rich noble’s “Favorite Poor,” the arm’s length acquaintance that the noble used to prove their worldliness, their penchant for _tolerance_ and _big ideas_ , stripping the Rukon kid of their dignity and turning them into little more than an accessory for the noble’s vanity, like some fancy designer bag from the World of the Living.

Renji knew he’d need allies from across the social divide to climb the ranks as the squads’ recruitment methods rely heavily on nepotism and cronyism, so social suicide wasn’t an option if he didn’t want to be sent packing back to Inuzuri. He also would’ve rather lopped off his right arm than become some rich kid’s “Favorite Poor.”

So… here he is. Secretly rooting for change and completely unable to voice his enthusiasm.

“Like a good thing?” offers Nanao.

“Yeah,” Renji says, throat going dry.

“You’re from Rukongai, right, Vice Captain Abarai?” asks Isane, her voice soft.

She means nothing by it, he reminds himself. Isane is one of the nicest vice captains in the ranks. And, yet… his defenses rise to full-mast. 

“Yeah,” he says, voice clipped and brows low and bunched together.

Isane stiffens, her cheeks redden, and her gaze trails to the floor. “Captain Unohana was excited about a pilot project to offer health services to some of the distant districts.”

Nanao shuts her book and gives Isane her full attention. “Captain Kyōraku was supportive of the proposed programming, especially Captain Ukitake’s idea of establishing foundling houses.”

Hearing this, Renji’s heart kicks against his ribs. Something like regret or… anger … or irritation… roils in his chest, stopping just short of bitterness.

What he would’ve given to have had _anything—_ even the most meager of support—when he and Rukia had been kids. _Their friends_ …. 

He pauses to consider what having the barest of necessities would’ve meant for their friends. Some of them would’ve survived longer if there had been some form of services, he thinks.

Maybe they’d even be alive right now.

It sounds like a nice idea, but pragmatism—or perhaps _cynicism_ —deflates the hope that starts to balloon in his chest. “Seems like a nice dream,” he says under his breath.

Nanao turns to him and blinks. “Dream?” she repeats the word as if it tastes spoiled, “I see,” she says after a long moment, “You’re skeptical.” 

“Yeah."

“It’s a lot of work,” says Nanao.

“But, there’s a lot of support, and Lady Kuchiki,” says Isane, the brightness of her voice dimming the moment Renji’s gaze meets hers, “she’s very tenacious.”

Renji can’t disagree on that point. But, Lady Kuchiki is one person, and if this were an easy thing, he has no doubt that she would’ve struck sooner. 

“It’s a start and there’s some buy-in,” concludes Nanao, “which is better than nothing.”

“Better than nothing” doesn’t sound like a sure thing. It sounds like damning with faint praise. 

Renji frowns and exhales a heavy breath through his nose.

Nothing ever changes in Soul Society.

Nanao goes back to reading her book. Isane goes back to staring into the garden. And, Renji goes back to leaning his head into the hard wood of the lattice.

His thoughts drift to the present.

The corridors are eerily quiet. Quieter than he’s ever remembered them being. There’re no servants shuffling through the halls, arms filled with laundry or food or cleaning supplies. There’re no senior staff member barking orders at maidens or the undergardeners. There’re no workmen setting out to repair a squeaky floorboard or build another annex for some new member of the family.

Notes from the conversation being had in the room behind him filter through the sliver of space between the wooden frame and the door. Lady Kuchiki’s voice carries, tones soft and sweet, and a heartbeat later laughter spills out into the hallway. Captain Kyōraku’s hits the loudest chord, followed by Captain Ukitake, and then a bunch of other voices that Renji doesn’t recognize.

“Have the members of the Central 46 been selected yet?” asks Renji.

Nanao shakes her head. Her finger lands on a word, keeping her spot on the page, and she glances over to him. “They’re in the final process of confirming the last of the wisemen and judges.”

“Who’s the ‘ _them_ ’ here?” 

“Officially, the remaining members of the Chambers." Nanao lifts a brow and shoots him a sly look.

“ _Un_ officially?”

“The Four Great Noble Families and some of the senior captainship seem to have a lot of _thoughts_ on the suitability of certain candidates.” She says the words slowly, _cautiously_ , as if she isn’t sure she should be revealing this to anyone.

Nanao studies him with a pensive expression. The lines of her face smooth, but there is a tilt to her lips that tells him that she’s preparing for the surprise to break across his face.

Surprise, however, doesn’t come for him.

Renji isn’t great at ascertaining the nuances of noble maneuverings, but he’s good at reading the big picture; he can see the storm clouds racing across the horizon just like anyone else. 

Power vacuums are great at producing thunder and lightning, after all. 

“They hashing out the details on that, too, in there?” asks Renji, giving a small jerk of his chin in the direction of the door.

Nanao flashes her brows up. It’s as close as she comes to confirming his suspicion before she dives back into her book. 

So, Lady Kuchiki is trying to stack the deck in the Central Chambers. Clever. Not that Renji thinks there’s a whole lot of good in the Kuchiki family, at least based on the stories that Rukia’s told him. 

It’s not long after that the door slides back, wood banging against wood, and a lord of some stripe crosses into the hall. On his heels is a lady and then another lord. They regard both Nanao and Isane with studied politeness, but they take one look at Renji and frown. 

Yeah, he’s not exactly their type, but there’s power in that, he thinks and glowers back at them. They skitter away, as if he’s a feral cur who might attack them. The lady opens a fan to obscure their faces, and they begin whispering among themselves.

Renji rips his attention from the noble threesome and glances into the room to find Captains Kyōraku, Ukitake, and Unohana gathered beside Hisana and Lord Konoe.

Renji bristles at the sight of Lord Konoe, dressed in dark blue, a shock of gray running through his dark hair. He’s got the noble look down: willowy, tall but not over-tall, sharp patrician features, and cutting eyes. 

From his periphery, Renji glimpses Nanao taking to her feet. She tucks her book under her arm, and she waits with head bowed. Isane, too, straightens, head forward, eyes on the ground.

Guess he better get up, too.

Exhaling a thick breath, Renji clambers to stand. His shoulders shrug against his silk, instinctively setting his collar straight, and his gaze drops to the glossy pine floorboards. He waits, ears burning with the sounds of easy conversation and stray words. 

“Oh, yes, we are very excited, Captain Ukitake,” says the Lady, voice climbing to a higher octave than her normal register, “thank you for inquiring. We hope you can make it.”

Renji doesn’t need the context of the conversation to guess that they’re talking about the birthday party for the twins. Likely out of a strong sense of sisterly affection, the Lady has set the party for _after_ the twins’ actual birthday. 

It’s not the twins’ fault they were born on the day that Rukia was set to be executed. Only a year ago. Rukia hasn’t mentioned it, and he doesn’t ask. But, the Lady, like he, knows it’s a sore subject for both Rukia and the Captain.

It’s a sore subject for Renji, too, but….

Again, it’s not the twins’ fault. 

Probably wise of the Lady, still.

“I noticed _my_ invitation got lost in the mail,” says Captain Kyōraku as they near the threshold to the room.

“Is that right?” Lady Kuchiki sing-songs, a knowing brightness in her voice. 

“Probably because she knew you’d drink all their good liquor,” says Captain Ukitake.

“So cruel, Jūshirō!” says Captain Kyōraku, hand over his heart in feigned pain. 

“The invitation is on your desk,” says Nanao, “if you’d ever bothered to _visit_ your desk, you would’ve seen it.”

“Look at Nanao. _Hiding_ my invitation.”

“Oh, Shunsui, you can _hardly_ accuse your vice captain of hiding your correspondence if you haven’t taken the time to visit your desk in _two weeks_ ,” teases Captain Unohana.

“You, too, Unohana?” says Captain Kyōraku.

“This has been a good discussion, milady,” says Lord Konoe, who turns to Lady Kuchiki, immune to the Captains’ theatrics in the background.

“Thank you, Lord Konoe, for your support of this effort.” The Lady appears as if she’s going to continue her thought, but her lips press shut. 

The Lord takes the Lady’s hand, and, bowing his head, presses a kiss to the back of it. His gaze skims her knuckles, a mischievous glimmer catches in his eyes, as if he relishes the Lady’s obvious discomfort. Once he has taken his fill, he turns, careening almost head-on into Renji. 

Renji takes a pace to the side, heart drumming a quickened beat at the near-miss.

Lord Konoe halts. His lips bend into a scowl, and his head tips back to take full stock of Renji. This man must loathe having to gaze _up_ at Renji. 

Renji vaguely remembers something about how nobles hate having their heads lower than those of the common folk. And, boy, is Renji common as fuck.

Lord Konoe’s scowl deepens at what he finds, and his eyes burn cold. Colder than the winter sky. For a flicker, the Lord’s gaze shifts to the badge on Renji’s arm. “Vice Captain.”

Renji has never heard the title— _vice captain—_ spoken with such venom before. And, for the first time, Renji feels leveled—as if he’s lower than dirt—in House Kuchiki. 

“Tadahiro,” Lady Kuchiki intervenes with a smirk, “don’t tell me that you haven’t met Captain Ukitake’s new vice captain?”

Lord Konoe’s expression morphs from disgust to intrigue when he glances askance at the Lady. “Can’t say I have,” he replies, voice losing its edge.

“Oh, yes,” the Lady sing-songs with a cute giggle, one that she buries in the silk of her sleeve, “he’s been so good to my beloved sister.” She draws to Renji’s side, threading her arm through his. “He saved her from the betrayers’ treachery. I hear it was quite the spectacle of heroics.”

There is a twist to the Lord’s lips that signals his irritation at what the Lady is doing, but he forces a clever grin. “Yes, I believe I heard that Captain Kuchiki and another seated member of the Squads saved Lady Rukia.”

“Well, here he is, the vice captain who carried her to safety.”

“Not to take away from Byakuya’s and Renji’s accomplishments, may I add that it was a _joint_ effort to save Rukia and Soul Society,” says Captain Kyōraku.

“Of course, Captain,” the Lady says around a charming smile, “No one should forget your _contribution_.” She gives Captain Kyōraku a wink. “Without your and Jūshirō’s detective skills, my dear husband would’ve been forced into an altercation with the Captain-Commander. I am endlessly grateful that such needless bloodshed was avoided.”

Before either Captains Kyōraku or Ukitake can respond, the Lady smoothly turns to Captain Ukitake and asks, “Would it be too much to request the services of your vice captain? It won’t take too much of his time, I assure you.”

Captain Ukitake trades a knowing glance with Captain Kyōraku, both men grinning, like _idiots_. “Of course, Hisana.” Captain Ukitake then looks Renji in the eye. “Good luck, Abarai.”

 _Good luck?_ Renji wonders the moment he feels the Lady pull him down the hall.

Once they are out of earshot of the Captains and nobles, Renji dips his head to hers and whispers, “Everything okay?”

The Lady glances sidelong over her shoulder. “Just avoiding some very tedious company.”

Ah, so he’s the escape plan. Got it. 

“My family,” she begins, lips sloped into a frown, “is just….”

 _The worst?_ he wants to say.

“Well, let’s just say, there will be many invitations for teas where I can entertain their concerns and ideas. No need to jump in prematurely.”

He smiles at this gentle rebuke. “So where are we going?”

“A good question.” She chuckles. “Wait. No. I have a perfect idea! If you would oblige me?”

“Sure.”

The Lady yanks him down the hall and into the library. The moment they enter the room, her arm falls away from his, and she goes to a tall shelf, pulls herself up on the balls of her feet, and strains to see the top of the bookcase. “See,” she says, pointing to the top.

Renji steps to her side and cocks his head, eyes following the direction of her hand. “The book?” It’s an old leather-bound tome, the cover of which has a thick coating of dust.

“Yes! It’s an old family history with _pictures_. I’ve been searching for it for _years_. Would you mind getting it down for me? You see,” she says, gesturing vaguely to her diminutive size, “I’ve tried everything. Not even the little ladder over there,” she continues, nodding her head in the direction of a small ladder on rollers attached to the shelf behind them, “helps.”

Renji’s brows furrow. “Captain Kuchiki can’t reach it, either?” 

“Why do you think I’ve been searching for it for ages?”

Renji laughs. “So, he doesn’t _want_ you to find it.”

“Exactly! He deprives me of family memories because he thinks they’re embarrassing.”

 _Well, now Renji_ _has to oblige the Lady._ Embarrassing antics involving Captain Kuchiki? Irresistible temptation. “Okay.”

“You’re the best!” she says, smile widening, and she flitters to the ladder, bringing it around for his use.

Renji climbs a few of the steps. It isn’t much of a stretch before he has the tome firmly in hand. It’s heavy, and, the moment he disturbs it, a cloud of dust stirs up, sending them both into a hacking fit.

Bringing the album to his chest, his grip on the book falters, which, would’ve been fine had there not been a stack of papers set atop the book’s cover. The papers go skittering to the floor, sending up another miniature plume of dust. 

Renji sets the book on one of the library tables. “Sorry about that.”

“What are these?” asks the Lady, words overlapping his apology.

He turns to find her kneeled down, staring into the pile of fallen letters. She has one in her hand, her fingers peeling back the flap to the envelope. The missive stuffed inside unfurls, and her eyes move swiftly across the page. “Oh, wow,” she gasps, cheeks turning pink.

“What is it?” Renji asks.

The Lady’s lips split into a wry grin, and a gleam lights her eyes. “Just _wow_.” 

He kneels down beside her and picks one of the letters up, one that is already loose from its envelope. Carefully, he unfolds it, worried that the parchment, so thin from age, might turn to ash in his hands. 

He scans the page, brain soaking in the words.

It’s a poem. A love poem. His brows knit together. “This is nice,” he says, voice uncertain. 

Maybe the words aren’t nice. Renji is no expert. Izuru would know better on the technical aspects of poetry, of which Renji has gathered there are _many such aspects_ having indulged his friend a time or twenty on the subject.

“Proposals, actually,” the Lady says, a grin still hanging from her lips.

“What?” His brows fly up. “How can you tell?” They all seem very… _benign_ … comparing a woman’s beauty to nature. 

“The fashionable way for proposals to be made among the nobility is to communicate the desire to meld rivers together, or souls together, or well, _anything_ together.” 

“Oh.” Well, the piece in his hand definitely discusses the sky and stars’ desire to unite. 

Suddenly, Renji hopes he’s never misread some well-meaning noble lady’s poetry. _Yikes_.

“Are these Captain Kuchiki’s proposals to you?” he asks, fear clawing at his throat. Maybe he shouldn’t be reading these letters. Feels like he’s just plowed through some private family affair.

“Undoubtedly. Oh, Byakuya." She sighs. 

“Is that how he proposed?” Renji cringes as soon as the question flies out of his mouth. Seems wrong, invasive, but the Lady is too busy caught in an adoring memory of her husband to notice.

“One of the ways,” she says, lifting her head to meet Renji’s stare.

He chokes on his own spit at the reply. 

One of the ways? One of the ways! How many times did the Captain have to propose to the Lady? 

He wants to die. 

Can one even die by proxy of embarrassment? 

If Renji proposed.

And she said no.

He’d definitely need a good year-long laydown. 

The Lady chuckles. “Our match was inappropriate, forbidden. I couldn’t say yes.”

“How many times did the Captain….” Renji’s voice trails off, his mind unable to fully wrap itself around the fact that Captain Kuchiki proposed marriage and was _rejected_.

If Captain Kuchiki can get rejected, then….

 _He’s fucking doomed_.

The Lady lifts a shoulder. “A few times. I thought saying ‘no’ would become easier.”

“It didn’t?” Color Renji surprised.

Lady Kuchiki glances at him slyly. “Not when you love the person.”

“What proposal finally worked?” This he needs to know. There’s got to be _some_ hope to which he can cling. 

“He just asked me. Plainly. No poems. No flowery words. No _kanzashi_. He explained to me that he had gotten permission from his family _months before_ , and, apparently, he and his Grandfather had a bet that he really didn’t want to lose.”

“What?” Renji _exclaims_ rather than asks.

She laughs at him, cheeks rosy, light dancing in her eyes. “Yes. All his attempts at romance failed, but the moment he mentioned losing a bet, well, I couldn’t let _that_ happen! You don’t let your loved ones lose bets, Vice Captain Abarai. Especially bets with their family. That’s a matter of _pride_.”

A nervous chortle leaves him, and he swears a piece of his soul escapes him at the same time. “Well, that’s—” Perfect reasoning for someone from Inuzuri. 

Indeed, you don’t let your loved ones lose bets there. That’s some traitorous shit.

The Lady lifts a brow, which reminds him that he hasn’t finished his thought.

“—that’s actually beautiful.”

“I know!” She laughs. “I thought so. He disagreed and was very tender over it for decades. He lies about it to everyone. So,” she says, bumping Renji with her elbow, “you can’t tell anyone. Not even Rukia. It’ll break his heart.”

Wait! Rukia doesn’t even know? How is that possible? 

Then, the obvious reason slams into him. Rukia’s never asked. Never would ask. She probably has some ridiculously romantic story built up in her head, and it’s not like the Lady would ruin that for her sister.

“Why did you tell me?” he asks, giving her a sideways glance.

“Because it’s important for young men to know that sometimes your best, most romantic intentions fall flat. And, that’s okay. Thwarted attempts at romance become better with time. It adds texture.”

“Certainly, makes for an interesting story,” he says, feeling the sting of heat on his cheeks. 

Did Rukia tell the Lady about his underwhelming confession? Is this pep talk just the Lady’s way of taking pity on him?

“That’s what I said! Byakuya will forever disagree publicly, but I think he secretly wouldn’t have it any other way.” She pauses, the light in her eyes dims as she gathers the discarded proposals in her hands, and says, “Rukia is deeply pragmatic, too.” She eyes him with a knowing look. “Don’t overthink it.”

With those words hanging between them, she taps the bottom edge of the stack of letters against the tatami to straighten them, and she stands. She slips the papers into the album, hugs the items to her chest, and gives him a tidy bow. “Thank you, Vice Captain. I hope to see you at the party.”

He bows. “You bet.”

The Lady laughs at his word choice and then leaves him to the quiet of the library.

 _Don’t overthink it._ Her words loop in his head.

Did she just give him her blessing?

His eyes widen, and he feels his blood pressure plummet.

* * *

Byakuya hates parties. 

He hates small parties the most. There’s an intimacy to large parties—a freedom to _avoid_ people—that makes them more tolerable. This, however, only applies if you’re the _guest._

He’s not a guest today. No. He’s one of the _hosts_.

Such a fate makes it impossible to avoid _anyone_. 

Looking out from engawa into the garden, he frowns. 

There’s a crowd. Does he even know all of these people? Does _Hisana_ know all of these people?

The contents in his stomach shift. 

It’s beginning to feel like a pop quiz every time someone greets him. Like right then. Some smallish round-faced Shinigami with a mop of dark hair and a hopeful look extends his thanks for being invited. The boy speaks at a quick clip, words jumbling into a tangle of sounds rather than words.

Byakuya offers the boy a blank stare, unsure how to respond to such ineloquence.

Who is this person? He looks familiar. Perhaps a member of the Fourth. Is he a Yamada? Perhaps he’s the boy who accompanied the party to Hueco Mundo? Are those people one and the same? Potentially. 

Never mind. The boy scurries away, giving three quick bows before bumping backward into one of the louts from the Eleventh, the bald man with the permanent grimace. Said lout proceeds to excoriate the boy.

Apologizing ensues. _Wonderful._

“Hey!” says Rukia, eyes narrowing at the bald lout, “That’s not very kind, Ikkaku! You apologize to Hanatarō!” 

Oh, yes, the younger Yamada boy. Byakuya was right.

“It’s fine, Lady Rukia,” says Hanatarō, who then bows to Rukia. “I ran into him. I’m sorry, Madarame.” Again, the boy bows, this time to Ikkaku.

Byakuya sighs.

How did this happen to him, again? Did his well-meaning wife and sister invite _everyone_ to his sons’ birthday party?

He objected to the _idea_ of a birthday party. Such is not the Kuchiki way. Birthdays are celebrated as a collective, on New Year’s Day. Having separate birthdays is a modern convention—an _indulgent_ one—and he _abhors_ it _._ Neither his wife nor his sister, however, minded his objections. The only concession he managed to obtain was approval of the guest list. And yet, every time the list was provided, it was immediately withdrawn because someone had been left off. 

By the end, Byakuya resigned himself to the fact that every officer of the Gotei 13 who ever spoke a kind word to Rukia and every political ally or soon-to-be-ally of his wife would be milling around his house. Sniffing through his things. Wanting to _talk_ to him.

And, now here he is.

It’s been fifteen minutes, and Byakuya wants to retreat to the privacy of his rooms. Hisana must sense his impending retreat because she appears at his side. A sly grin slants her lips as she glances up at him. 

When he doesn’t respond to her charms, she nudges his arm with her elbow.

“It’s not so bad,” she hums to herself, attention drifting to Shiro, who waddles with his hand tucked in Rukia’s.

“There are many people,” he notes.

“It’s a very large estate.”

“The twins don’t know any of these people.”

“They do now.” Her grin widens. “Look how much socialization they’re getting. It’s good for their development.”

“Haku has cried three times.”

“But, you haven’t cried once. I consider that a success.” Her gaze drifts to Haku. Jūshirō balances the boy on his hip and waves some colorful noisy object to the child’s delight.

“Is there a reason that the party is _so_ _large_?”

Hisana stares into the throngs of partygoers. “The guest list maybe got a little out of hand. But this is the twins’ first party, and….”

It’s been a year since Rukia was almost executed, since Hisana almost died in childbirth, since the defections that sparked a civil war. 

Maybe the size of the party is earned, even if he _hates_ it. 

“Rukia was going to set a blanket in the courtyard. Maybe we should join her for a moment.” Hisana’s fingers catch in the slack of his sleeve, and he knows there’s no escape; he’s helpless. 

He also knows what Hisana is doing: She’s trying to calm his nerves, help him acclimate to the mental and visual noise, and, well, he doesn’t object to her methods. 

“Here you two are!” Hisana says, grabbing Shiro up to the boy’s surprise. He giggles and throws his arms around her neck.

“Sister,” Rukia greets and sinks into seiza on the blue tarp. “Brother.” She sets a bottle of sake, cups, and some food items. 

“How has Shiro been?” asks Hisana. The boy squirms in her arms, straining to grasp for Byakuya.

“Excited. He’s in love with the Kenpachi.”

Hisana chortles, carefully balancing the babe’s weight as he wiggles into Byakuya’s arms. “Well, that’s a little—”

“Unacceptable,” interrupts Byakuya.

Rukia laughs. “Squad Six might have some competition, Brother. I think we have a future Squad Eleven recruit on our hands.”

Byakuya sees the knowing look that passes between the sisters and frowns. 

At least Haku is the elder of the boys. Maybe House Kuchiki won’t collapse if Shiro ultimately joins a gang of reprobates. 

Once seated, Byakuya sets Shiro down, and Hisana hands the boy a wheel of pre-cut banana from a bag to distract him from romping away.

“Oh, don’t be sour, dear,” says Hisana as she begins pouring the sake for them. “Shiro’s probably intrigued by the captain’s reiatsu.”

Rukia tips her sake cup back in a hurry, her eyes sparkling with amusement. 

“True. He hasn’t encountered such an utter lack of control and discipline before now,” replies Byakuya, trying very hard to hide his internal irritation.

“Rukia!”

Speaking of bad influences, here comes the _Ruffian._ Crashing toward them. Byakuya acknowledges Renji long enough to observe the ridiculous pair of goggles shoved to the crown of the boy’s head. The goggles are oversized, and, when the sun hits the lenses, they shimmer electric blue. 

How _distasteful_. 

Byakuya hides his displeasure with a well-timed sip of sake. 

“Renji!” says Rukia, matching the boy’s level of excitement.

Oh, dear. Things must be progressing. Another sip of sake is necessary to obscure the frown that sinks his lips.

“Lady Kuchiki.” Renji addresses his wife before him. 

Somehow Byakuya suspects this won’t be the last of the Ruffian’s _faux pas_ today.

“Vice Captain Abarai, we are so happy you could make it,” Hisana says.

“Yeah, Renji. What took you so long, anyway?” teases Rukia.

Renji rubs the back of his neck. “Long night,” he says, voice sheepish.

“Well, come sit with us, then.” Hisana pats the space between her and Byakuya.

Byakuya cuts his wife a pointed glare and, immediately, sets the sake bottle between them.

The corners of Renji’s lips twitch into a strained smile. “Uhm.” His voice wavers.

“Of course, _milord_ ,” says Hisana, gaze flitting from Byakuya to Renji, “what was _I_ thinking? We should pour the Vice Captain a cup of sake.” She then leans toward Renji, as if to confess something untoward. “This particular vintage is very special to the family.”

A sweet lie, but a lie nonetheless. Byakuya has no doubt that some servant purchased the sake a day ago from whatever supplier was giving them the best price at the time. 

Once his wife has cleared the bottle away, Renji sinks down between them. His back is straight, his shoulders tense, and there is a redness to his neck where he had been nervously rubbing the skin.

How inelegant. 

“Rukia says you’ve both been busy training at night,” says Hisana. 

Byakuya catches his sister stiffen at the topic, cheeks turning a shade of red. He really hopes that “training,” here, isn’t a euphemism for something else. Something disgraceful.

He needs more alcohol to keep these thoughts at bay, handing Hisana his cup before she has the chance to fill Renji’s. 

Hisana obliges him with a sharp glance.

“Oh, yeah.” At least Renji doesn’t _sound_ guilty when he answers. A relief. “It’s been super helpful.”

“That’s very exciting,” says Hisana, “now, do you have that upgrade move, yet? What’s it called, dear? The one after shikai?” Her eyes linger on Byakuya.

It’s a ploy, no doubt, to pull Byakuya into the conversation. It doesn’t work. Instead, he inhales a breath and trades stares with Rukia, who, too, has discerned Hisana’s objective. 

Hisana knows what bankai is, and what it is called. He knows she knows because early in their marriage—before he assumed the Squad Six captainship—she would bring him food and set a blanket on the hill overlooking the training ground while he labored to tame his. She did this every night right after she returned from searching for Rukia in Rukongai. Many nights, he would find her nestled sleeping in the blanket, and he would carry her home, to bed. Some nights, however, he was too exhausted and would join her under the stars. 

Good memories.

“I’m working toward it,” says Renji. “I just need a little more time.”

“He needs someone better than me to train with,” says Rukia between sips of sake.

Renji tucks his head down. 

The boy is too polite to admit it, but Jūshirō is not well enough to offer much assistance when it comes to training for bankai. 

“Maybe Byakuya could help with your training?” says Hisana.

Byakuya promptly chokes on his sake. 

What? He can hardly believe his wife would be so bold as to offer him up like that. What has he done to her to deserve such a fate?

“That would be so kind of Brother. He’s been such a good instructor during my training,” says Rukia, attention firmly on Hisana. 

Now, his sister, too? 

Rukia knows better.

“That sounds great, but—” begins Renji, sounding uncertain about what to say next.

“No need to be coy, Vice Captain Abarai. Don’t you want to improve?” asks Hisana.

“Yeah, Renji. Who do you think you’re gonna find that’s better than Brother to train with?”

Byakuya straightens uncomfortably. Does he not get a say? He doesn’t remember consenting to _any_ of this.

“It’s settled, then. Byakuya will help you achieve bankai,” Hisana says with a decisive air and tilts the bottle forward to fill Renji’s cup. 

Only a dribble of sake trickles out.

Not one to be deterred, she straightens, returns the stopper to the bottle, and takes to her feet.

“It’s really no problem,” says Renji, hands open, palm-side up, as if to will Hisana back into place. 

“No, no,” she says sunnily, “this won’t do. Rukia, would you mind helping me?”

Mid-stuffing a pink dango dumpling into her mouth, Rukia lifts her head and stares at her sister. “Me?” she says and points to herself, incredulous.

“Yes. I’ll need some help.”

“Getting another bottle?” If Rukia didn’t sound so confused, her question would be naked impertinence.

“Yes.” Hisana jerks her head toward the thick of the party. “I need help selecting one that will be suitable for all of us.”

Rukia blinks, clearly not understanding the subtext. Before it dawns on her what Hisana is doing, Byakuya issues his sister a cold, bloodless look, one that he knows she knows means to hold her position beside him.

Oblivious to his silent order, Rukia climbs to her feet and begins after Hisana. It’s only natural. Hisana possesses a magnetic warmth that can best even his better judgment.

Rukia pauses a beat to shoot Renji a sympathetic glance. Then, she is lost. Lost to Hisana’s devious machinations.

Byakuya bristles at this. 

Renji gets the sympathetic look? What about him? What is he to do now? Alone. With the Ruffian.

When Byakuya finds the inner fortitude to turn to Renji, it appears the boy hasn’t caught onto what has happened, what the women have just done. Instead, Renji stares into Rukia’s back as if he hasn’t a thought to piece together.

The women in his family are going to eat this kid alive….

“Thanks,” says Renji after a long pause.

“I didn’t agree to train you.”

“Oh, I was thanking you for the party, is all.”

Byakuya takes a large gulp of sake. The alcohol stings the parts of his throat chaffed from the hacking fit moments ago. 

“What is your zanpakutō’s power?” Byakuya grumbles under his breath, somewhat grateful that his wife left them with a topic. Not a _great one_ , but one that’s better than some of the alternatives that come to mind. 

Like what the Ruffian’s intentions are with his sister….

“Zabimaru is kinda like a sword-whip.”

Byakuya lifts a brow. “Go on.”

“In shikai, the sword becomes segmented; the segments can grow in number.”

“Is there a limit?”

Renji shakes his head. “Not that I’ve found.”

“And what connects these _segments_?”

“An elastic thread of sorts, which allows it to be used as a whip for long-ranged combat.”

Interesting. Remembering back nearly a year ago when Byakuya apprehended both his sister and Renji from the World of the Living, Renji had given a half-hearted struggle, but nothing this extravagant. 

“Any special abilities?”

Renji shrugs, which causes the line of his collar to deepen. It’s indecent how slap-dashed his robes fall. Did the boy put himself together in the dark?

“It’s not that useful,” Renji admits after a moment of consideration, “I can make the blade explode.”

“Explode?” Byakuya’s brows twitch at the implications of such language. “You can sacrifice your own zanpakutō in other words.” 

How barbaric.

Renji nods. “Yeah. After use, it takes some time to repair itself. It’s a last-ditch measure, for sure.” 

“And your bankai?”

Renji lowers his head. “It’s a work in progress.”

“You know its name, though?”

He nods. “I can summon it. But….”

“It takes many years to master,” says Byakuya.

Renji glances askance, his lips part, and his voice begins to expand in his throat, then….

“There you are!” Ikkaku Madarame and his feathered friend, Yumichika Ayasegawa, seemingly manifest from the ether. “You owe me money, Abarai.”

Renji flusters, like a bird shaking its wings. “Go away, Ikkaku,” he growls between gritted teeth.

“Don’t think you can just duck out of it now because we’re at a Kuchiki party.”

“ _Ikkaku_.”

Byakuya hands Shiro another wheel of banana from the bag that Hisana left and pretends to fade into the background when the two men begin bickering over the particulars of the owed money. With a sigh on his lips, he glances up into the crowd with the hope of catching his wife’s or sister’s attention. 

That desire, however, deflates the moment he feels Madarame squeeze between him and Renji. The force of which _jostles_ Byakuya. Before he can protest the man’s sudden proximity, Ayasegawa is at Byakuya’s other side and is fiddling with the hem of Shiro’s violet kimono.

“This is so beautiful, Captain Kuchiki,” says Ayasegawa. “Did Lady Kuchiki sew it?”

Byakuya eyes the stitching that seems to hold Ayasegawa’s attention. “I believe she did some of the embroidery.” 

The man nods his head approvingly. “May I ask a personal question, Captain?”

Byakuya tips his cup back and drains the remainder of the sake. 

“It’s something I’ve been wondering a while. Dying to ask you, really, for _years_ ,” he continues.

Byakuya braces himself.

“What conditioner do you use for your hair?” Ayasegawa flutters his long, feathered lashes.

That’s it. Byakuya needs to find his wife. Now.

Before he can excuse himself, however, Vice Captains Rangiku Matsumoto and Shūhei Hisagi join in. “Captain Kuchiki!” Matsumoto sings, “Thank you so much for hosting the party. The boys are impossibly adorable.” She swiftly inserts herself between Ayasegawa and him, scooping Shiro into her arms.

“Rangiku!” Ayasegawa grouses. “You don’t fit here.”

Indeed, she is encroaching on Byakuya’s personal space. As are both Ayasegawa and Madarame. 

“Are you calling me _fat,_ Yumichika?”

“I didn’t state anything outright.”

“So, you’re _implying_ it, then?”

As the two proceed to argue, Byakuya tips his cup back, only realizing when a singular drop of sake hits his tongue that it’s still empty. Weren’t Hisana and Rukia supposed to be fetching more? How long does it take for _them both_ to locate a spare bottle of sake?

“Yeah, thanks for the invitation, Captain Kuchiki. The party is very festive,” says Hisagi.

Byakuya frowns. It wasn’t that many months ago that he caught the man leering at the female vice captains and his wife practicing a dance. That memory continues to needle him.

“Thank you, Vice Captain,” Byakuya manages, voice bled of all good humor. 

He needs to extract himself from this over-crowded blanket and fast. His escape routes, however, are not optimal. He’s crammed between Matsumoto, Ayasegawa, and Madarame. Shiro is latched onto Matsumoto, face snuggled into the curve of her neck. 

Any elegant retreat is impossible. But, what about a blundering one? He might be able to pull off a blundering with great success. He’d have to sacrifice Shiro to Matsumoto, but the boy appears happy enough, and she sober enough. Sober enough for now, at least.

It’s this last thought that stays Byakuya, and, right as he begins to pick apart a way to swipe his child from her arms without notice, Hisana and Rukia return with bottles of sake.

His wife, especially, looks _triumphant_ , as if her suspicion to collect several bottles was well-placed. There is a knowing bent to her head and curve in her brow. If she weren’t so loveable, he’d find it all intolerably arrogant.

Rukia dutifully begins setting the bottles down on the blanket. 

“Alcohol!” cries Matsumoto.

“The good stuff!” both Hisagi and Ayasegawa add in unison.

Oh, no. Byakuya cannot abide this, being trapped among drunken officers. He needs a way out, and now.

“Abarai,” he begins, “the matter we were discussing, would you like to start now?”

Mid-argument, the Ruffian’s gaze slides to Byakuya, and he blinks. Disbelief widens his eyes. “You… and… _me_?”

“That’s how it works.”

“Like right now?”

“Yes.” Lords, yes, please anything to escape the maddening crowd that has settled across Rukia’s blanket.

“Sure!” Renji is on his feet a moment after accepting.

“What are they talking about?” Matsumoto asks Hisagi, who shrugs in reply.

Hisana and Rukia, however, look supremely smug, and, for a moment, Byakuya wonders if this was his wife’s gambit all along. 

Well played, if so.

Well played, indeed.


End file.
